Crazy For You
by Skyhiatrist
Summary: A tale of bloody revenge and grusome oneshotness. Unrequited Love is a dangerous force...


Crazy For You

It is strange, is it not, that I should hear an owl deliver it's mystical sound as I travel down this darkened street. I have never seen this fabled wise creature or indeed ever heard one, so why it should choose this night of all nights to be present I shall never know. Fitting though, I cannot help but feel as the moonlight flashes off my sharpened blade. The plans which have curdled in my mind appreciate a sense of ceremony, there is no doubt. A blood letting, no matter how informal, should be proper after all. There are debts to be paid in thick red liquid, to the tune of a midnight call.

My pace quickens as an alley cat darts it sinister way across my path. You cannot trust these animals, they are selfish and shallow. They will not return when you call but choose instead to mock you from a nearby rooftop. I cannot care too much, I will not waste my time with such infuriating creatures. Their screeches will keep many a weary body awake tonight. Good, it shall drown out the pleas of my beloved as I plunge this knife into that indifferent heart.

Do I fear the aftermath you ask? No, I cannot say I do. This country, with all it's diplomacy and rules and those who would lie to us as soon as stab us in the back, it can find no punishment worse than the torture which I live through daily. The horror of awakening in a bed as vast as meadows which separate lover from girl, it has become too much. The burden of carrying this love around in my heart like so much dead weight is too heavy, and the pain is empty now. It doesn't hurt anymore, and I am too numb to care. It is funny that this sliver of steel which I cradle in my hand can put such an abrupt end to so many years of torment.

From head to toe I am swathed in black, perfect to blend in with the shadows that claim this decaying city when the sun abandons us all. No one can see me as I make my way to my destination, the house of my love slash victim slash classmate slash slash slash. Death by blade is not so empty, as blood is beautiful in a morbid sort of way. Anyone who sees me will not pay me any mind, they have their own dirty dealings to be getting on with. I will not tell on them if they do not tell on me. They may regret this later, however, as I doubt these villains enjoy murder half as much as I do.

A police siren wails it's authoritative call behind me, shocking me. I am nervous, yes, of all the disappointed looks I shall get. The blade leaps from my hand, unwilling it would seem to be part of my evil scheme. Perhaps it misses the days when it would lay idle on the chopping board, nothing more to slay than an innocent loaf of bread from time to time. Well, my sweet weapon, I am afraid tonight you have been selected for a much grimmer purpose, though I will be eternally in your debt. I pick you up; you are the key to freeing me from this hellish prison.

Perhaps if you knew of the pain you put me through each and every day you could care, but not enough to love me. You don't love me, you couldn't. We're not compatible, some might say, but if opposites attract we could be together forever. I love you. I love you. I think of you, sitting at your desk, trying to concentrate, and then I think of you never doing it again. There are two empty seats in that classroom now, as neither of us can ever come back from this.

Oh my, am I at your house already? Never mind, I have a plan, a purpose, and a reason to be here. I sweat and I cannot breath as I climb the pipe outside your window. The reality of what I am about to do is hitting me with such a force that I fear I may fall from this dizzying height. Will I really kill you? Am I really prepared to take you from the living and deliver you to the underworld, offering my soul as your token? No, far from it, but it is not about what I am prepared to do. It is what you won't do that has earned you a stab wound. Your window is already open, inviting me inside. This is too easy.

Here is my first true test. To watch you, sleeping peacefully, your blond hair fluttering gently where it meets your wonderful lips. Lips which for so long I have wanted to taste. Strange, being addicted to something which you never let me have. You couldn't see though, could you? Can't really be blamed for making me love you, but I'm blaming you in the most brutal way possible. This surge of anger helps me overcome this hurdle, the hurdle of you at your most innocent. It's a lie, you deserve this.

I raise the knife high above my head and think about that which I am planning to do. I plan to kill you, to murder you. To stain these flawless white sheets with your blood. I want you to bleed yourself dry, so there can be nothing left. No life in you with which you can love someone else. At the risk of uttering a cliche; if I can't have you, no one can. I smile, manically. It's like a movie, only this is so seriously real. Deadly real, you could say. I have to breathe.

There must be so much angry blood pounding in my ears that I do not realise how loud I am. Your gentle eyelids flutter, in the confusion that you should be awoken while the darkness still claims the hour. Then you see it, perhaps you feel it. The powerful blade poised over your terrible heart, waiting to plunge through the t-shirt you sleep in and take you from this world. You have awoken in the middle of your own murder; you must be awfully afraid.

You scramble to sit up at the very least, anything to make yourself less vulnerable, but it is no use. You do not question why I of all people have shown up at this hour with the tiresome chore of killing you, I imagine you do not care. Your only thoughts are of yourself, and how you must survive this. You don't want to die, after all. You're too young. But I'm sorry to say that you are also too selfish to live.

"No" you breathe, like I'll care. I've gone too far now. You could offer yourself to me but I don't want you anymore. Not like this. Not out of fear. Love is beautiful, don't you know. It doesn't involve darkness and plots and everything else. This isn't love, you bitch, this is business.

"No, Stinky, please," you beg, your blue eyes full of tears. But it's too late for that Helga.

It's too late.

-

**A/N: Would you believe this was written under the influence of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches? That would explain the OOCness... Anyway, for those of you who may not have picked up on it, this story goes along on the idea that Stinky's feelings weren't entirely nixed after the episode _'Helga's Boyfriend'_. When I originally wrote this, I had Stinky turning the knife on himself instead, but then I thought sod it, this is much more horrific. I promise to get the horror out of my system eventually, and I would like to make a formal apology to Miss Helga Geraldine Pataki for killing her off so much. Happy Holidays! - Sky.**


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